Munich – Kroos at the Crossroads
It was raining in Bavaria, but Mason wore no coat.
He stepped into the glass-walled café near Säbener Straße. No agents, no club officials—just one man seated with a coffee and an unread newspaper folded beside him.
Toni Kroos. Reserved. Disciplined. Already suspicious.
"You're not Bayern," Kroos said quietly, as Mason sat.
"No," Mason replied. "I'm your next chapter."
Kroos tilted his head. "Madrid already called."
"They'll wait a year. Then pretend they discovered you."
Mason slid a small folder across the table. Inside: match diagrams, set-piece rotations, positional data from Ferguson-era midfielders.
"You're not a galáctico," Mason said. "You're a metronome. A system. You don't belong where every pass is a highlight reel. You belong where every pass is a weapon."
Kroos didn't open the folder. Just stared at him. "And where is that?"
"Manchester United. But not the one you know."
Mason leaned forward.
"I'm rebuilding the best side in Europe with players no one's watching. You come now, you become the conductor. Wait another year, and you'll be another part of someone else's orchestra."
A pause.
Then, the smallest smile from Kroos.
"Alright," he said. "Play me something worth conducting."
Scene 2: Zurich – Salah's Crossroads
They met in a quiet lounge off Zürich Hauptbahnhof.
Salah looked tired. Not skeptical—guarded. He wore a hoodie, half-zipped, fingers still stained from last night's match tape.
"Roma's ready to sign me," he said. "Italy suits me."
"They think it does," Mason replied. "Because you're quiet. Because you're humble. They think they can tame you."
"I'm not looking for fame."
Mason smiled. "Good. I'm not offering it. I'm offering war."
He placed a tablet on the table. On it: his United blueprint. A new 4-3-3. Kroos behind, Rooney floating, Lukaku anchoring the front line—and Salah flying in from the right like a razor.
"You'll stretch the pitch," Mason said. "Drag full-backs. Split defences. We'll invert Cancelo behind you, isolate you against the weak side. And then you'll finish. Again and again."
Salah studied it quietly. "They say United already has wingers."
"They have athletes," Mason said. "I want a knife."
Salah said nothing for a long time. Then finally: "You'll need to convince my agent."
"I'm not here to convince agents," Mason said, rising. "Just players who want to be great before they're seen as great."
As he turned to leave, Salah called out:
"If I come… I play."
Mason didn't turn around. Just said:
"If you come, you shine."
Carrington – Executive Wing, Boardroom Two
The walls hadn't changed. Same old portraits. Same dead air.
Mason stood at the head of the table once again. Kathleen O'Neill was there, as always—arms folded, impassive. Joel Glazer joined by video from Florida. Richard Arnold sat with a pen he hadn't clicked once. That alone made Mason nervous.
"Let me be clear," Mason began. "I'm asking for a combined £40 million."
He tapped the screen behind him. Two profiles appeared:
Mohamed Salah – FC Basel – £12m projectedRomelu Lukaku – Chelsea FC – £28m projected
A long pause.
Arnold spoke first. "You want to break transfer records… for a Belgian loanee and an Egyptian winger?"
Mason didn't blink. "Yes."
O'Neill leaned in. "You know who wore number seven here. Who wore number nine. Are you telling us these two boys are that level?"
"No," Mason said. "I'm telling you they will be. And if we don't act now, they'll become that somewhere else—Liverpool and Chelsea, respectively. And we'll be paying triple to catch them."
Joel's voice crackled through the speaker. "Lukaku wants first-team guarantees. You can't promise that with Van Persie still on the books."
"I don't need to promise it," Mason said. "I need to prepare for it. Robin's thirty next month. He gives me one season. Maybe two. I'm not building for the parade. I'm building for the after-party."
O'Neill tapped her nails on the table. "And Salah? Basel to Old Trafford is a leap."
"Salah is already running ten yards ahead of Premier League full-backs," Mason said. "He's just doing it in smaller stadiums. Bring him here, and he won't shrink. He'll thrive. He's not just pace. He's precision. He sees angles before they open."
Arnold looked down at his notepad. "And what if you're wrong?"
"Then we lose £40 million now," Mason said. "But if I'm right—we win the next ten years."
Silence. Then O'Neill nodded, slowly.
"We're not running a museum. We're running a machine."
She looked at Joel's screen. Joel gave the faintest nod.
"Approved," O'Neill said. "But you'd better be right."
Mason gave a quiet smile.
"I'm not right yet," he said. "But I'm about to be."